“Wanted to . . . look at what you had here.” He nodded toward the shelves on the far side of the room. “You’ve got a good collection.”
A little thrill of pride shot through her, even though the fellow paying the compliment probably couldn’t distinguish Shakespeare from Sophocles. “Thank you. My father started gathering tomes for his personal use before I was born, and when I mentioned that I wanted to open a lending library here in Spencer, he generously donated many of the books you see on the north side of the room. My tastes run more toward literature and novels, so that is what you will find on this side.” She released one hand from Black Beauty’s cover long enough to gesture at the shelves along the wall on her left.
He nodded.
She fought to keep her eyes from rolling in the direction of the ceiling. Dipping his chin seemed to be his answer for everything.
When he remained silent, she held out her book and indicated with a raised brow that she needed him to step aside so that she might replace it on the shelf. “Excuse me, please.”
He moved out of the way, and she slipped Anna Sewell’s autobiographical horse story between Laura Howe Richards’s The Joyous Story of Toto and Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island. She straightened and caught him watching her.
Her breath got tangled up in her throat. What was it about this man that put her so on edge? Was it his size? She was sure his arms boasted a larger circumference than her head, yet she felt no threat of violence from him. No, it had something to do with his eyes. There was a hint of apology in them, as if he knew he wasn’t measuring up to her expectations. And the vulnerability she’d glimpsed on their first meeting was there, too—at least it had been until he shuttered it. The combination left her with the odd urge to reassure him. And that scared her.
Her judgment regarding the masculine gender had proven faulty in the past. How foolish would she prove to be if she developed soft feelings for a man who couldn’t even remember her name? Better to offer what assistance she could and hurry him along.
Eden stepped toward the shelves on the north wall. “Is there something in particular I can help you find?”
Most males of her acquaintance only visited the library when they needed a specific piece of information, usually a manual or reference book of some sort. However, when she glanced back at Mr. Grant, his attention was fixed on the south wall, not the north.
“Do you have Verne?” He crossed through the open corner where she conducted her readings and began perusing the fiction spines.
“Verne?” She could think of no book with that title.
He twisted his neck to peer at her over his shoulder. “Verne,” he repeated. “The author?”
“Oh. Jules Verne. Of course.” What a ninny he must think her. “Yes. I have several of his titles.” She bustled past the blacksmith to the last bookshelf and crouched down to reach the bottom row. “Journey to the Centre of the Earth. From the Earth to the Moon. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.” She withdrew each book as she called out the title, shifting it into the crook of her left arm. “Around the World in Eighty Days. The—”
“That one.”
“Around the World in Eighty Days?” Eden looked up at him.
He nodded.
Of course he nodded. The man hoarded words as if he were being charged a dollar for each one he uttered.
She handed the book up to him and returned the others to the shelf. As she reached for the edge of the bookcase to aid her balance in standing, a hand cupped her elbow. A large, warm hand that lifted her to her feet so easily she felt more like a puppet than a person with muscle and sinew of her own.
Her gaze melded with his, and an unexpected stirring meandered through her abdomen. She lowered her lashes at once and hid her discomfiture behind a mumbled thank-you.
As soon as she regained her full height, Mr. Grant removed his hand, and one completely irrational corner of her heart actually regretted the loss. Just because a man was strong didn’t mean his commitments were, she reminded herself. Eden had felt secure with Stephen, too, right up until the day he accepted her father’s money and left her behind with a wedding dress that would never be worn.
She shook out her skirts, ignoring the fact that they were perfectly tidy, and cleared her throat. “Well, feel free to have a seat as you look over your book.” She motioned to a nearby armchair that cozied up to a library table and lamp.
He gave it a glance, then looked down at himself. “I think I’ll . . . go over there.” He tipped his head in the direction of the reading corner.
“All right.” Too late, Eden realized he’d have a difficult time squeezing himself into the chair she had offered. It obviously hadn’t been crafted for a man of his proportions. However, any chair that had been would surely swallow her usual female patrons, so he would have to make do. It wasn’t like he would be a regular visitor or anything. The giant hardly strung more than two words together at any one time. What could he possibly want with her books?
He was probably trying to impress her so she’d send a favorable report back to her father. Probably trying to give himself a veneer of sophistication. Although, why a blacksmith would think anyone cared if he could read or not escaped her.
As she watched him lower himself to the floor and brace his back against the wall, another, much more disturbing, thought found purchase in her brain. What if he was trying to impress her for more personal reasons?
Mr. Grant looked her way and smiled before stretching out his long legs. He crossed his ankles and opened the book across his lap.
Eden spun around, her breath hitching. Oh dear. That wouldn’t do at all. She couldn’t have him coming in all the time, pretending to be interested in literature simply because she’d expressed a preference for it. People might get ideas—matchmaking ideas. Wouldn’t the busybodies in town love to pair up the bookish spinster with the brawny blacksmith, making a to-do about opposites attracting and all that nonsense? It would be humiliating.
Especially because the whispers would start again. Whispers about how any man interested in a bluestocking like Eden Spencer must be after a piece of the Spencer fortune. Rumors would circulate about her last fiancé and the scandal that tainted her with his leaving. Questions would arise about whether or not her father would buy off another of her suitors, and how much it would cost him.
She’d spent the last five years of her life silencing those whispers. She couldn’t bear to have them return.
Then she heard one . . . right in her ear. “Is that the new smith?”
“Oh . . . Mrs. Draper.” Eden reined in her runaway thoughts. “Yes. I believe it is. Mr. Levi Grant.”
“Ah. I thought so. Norman told me the man was abnormally large.”
Eden followed the woman’s gaze and peeked at Mr. Grant. Sure, his legs were longer than most and well-muscled, and his torso put one in mind of a sturdy tree trunk, but she wouldn’t say his size was abnormal. She’d seen ranchers and quarry workers who exhibited similar statures. Well, perhaps not quite as tall. Or as strapping. But close.
“I imagine size would be beneficial in a job like his,” Eden said.
The banker’s wife sighed. “I suppose. Still, it will take some getting used to. I smiled when he came in, but to tell you the truth, I was praying the whole time that he wouldn’t come too close. One never knows what kind of behavior to expect from a man like that. If he were ever to lose his temper, he could probably snap a person in two.”
Eden bristled. Why, Mr. Grant had demonstrated more gentlemanly behavior toward her yesterday than Lydia’s husband had. And today, despite her ruffled feathers, he’d been polite and even assisted her to her feet.
“I’ve been in the man’s presence on two separate occasions, and he has always conducted himself in a courteous and civilized manner. I’m sure you have nothing to fear from him.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Lydia Draper gave her a probing look. Only then did Eden realize her defense of the blacksmith m
ight have been a tad too spirited. She rushed to change the subject.
“So, would you like to borrow that book?” Eden glanced pointedly at the volume in the woman’s hand.
“I don’t know.” Lydia opened the cover and thumbed through a couple of pages. “Do you think I’ll like it?”
Eden made out the embossed title. Lady Audley’s Secret. “Well, there are some elements to the story that you might consider somewhat shocking, but it has an intriguing plot with mysterious identities and a man bent on uncovering the truth. You can always try it and if it doesn’t fit your tastes, you may return it.”
“Shocking, you say?”
“There is a touch of scandal and certainly a great deal of deception, but the ending is quite satisfying. Right triumphs, as it should.” Eden chose to keep quiet about the fact that Lady Audley turned out to be a madwoman, a bigamist, and nearly a murderess. She wouldn’t want to spoil the mystery should Lydia decide to read it.
“All right,” the banker’s wife said as she handed the book over to Eden. “I’ll give it a try.”
There was a bit of a sparkle to the woman’s eyes, giving Eden the distinct impression that the shocking nature of the story might have actually increased its attractiveness. She hid a smile as she moved to her desk and opened the wooden box that held the cards for each book in her collection. Flipping through the alphabetical stack, she spotted the author’s name, Mary Elizabeth Braddon, and pulled free the small card for Lady Audley’s Secret. She noted the date, Lydia’s name, and the book’s title in her ledger and handed the book into Mrs. Draper’s keeping.
“I hope you enjoy it.”
Lydia tucked the book under her arm. “Thank you.”
As the woman departed, Eden added the extracted card to her Borrowed Books box and took a moment to peruse the other cards inside to see if anyone needed a gentle reminder about returning their selections.
All at once she sensed someone’s presence. Eden stilled, her head bowed over her box. Mr. Grant. It had to be. He was the only patron currently in the library. Yet she hadn’t heard his approach. Strange that a man his size could move so quietly.
Her heart thumping an uneven rhythm, Eden looked up. “Yes?”
“May I borrow it?” He set the Jules Verne novel on her desk with the same care one would use for a crystal vase or other delicate item.
Eden fought back a rising panic. She needed to discourage this man from becoming a regular visitor. After her slip with Lydia Draper, she was already in danger of having her name linked with his. If Mr. Grant started frequenting the library on a regular basis, it would only add grist to the rumor mill. But what could she do? She couldn’t bar the man from her reading room when he’d done nothing deserving of such drastic treatment. She needed something subtle, something . . .
An idea budded.
She leaned forward, lacing her fingers together as she pressed her palms onto the cover of the book, scooting it slightly toward her chest. “I would be happy to lend you this book, Mr. Grant, if you can come back in two weeks.”
“Two wee—” His brow furrowed as he cut himself off. “Why?”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have a policy about lending books to people who do not have strong ties to our community.” A policy that had been in place for all of ten seconds, but he needn’t know that. “I have to protect my inventory, you see. If someone were to borrow a book and then leave town for one reason or another, I’d have no way to recover the lost item. You only arrived in Spencer yesterday, sir, and while I’ve no doubt that you will soon establish yourself, until that day comes, I must restrict your borrowing privileges.”
She hoped that in two weeks he’d be so busy at the smithy, he’d have no time for books. Or her.
Which would be for the best.
Really.
His gaze strayed to the placard propped on a wire photograph easel at the corner of her desk, and the frown lines between his eyes relaxed.
“You open at noon every day?”
“Except Sundays.” Eden spoke slowly while her brain rushed ahead. Surely he wasn’t considering—?
“I’ll come by tomorrow, then.”
With supreme effort, Eden held her head erect and even managed a weak smile in parting as he bid her good day. But the minute she heard the front door close behind him, she slumped forward, her hands barely unlacing in time to catch her plummeting head.
Only she could so successfully achieve the very thing she so wanted to avoid.
Chapter Seven
Spending his lunch break at the library was quickly becoming a habit. And a rather pleasant one at that. Not only did Levi get the chance to renew his acquaintance with old friends like Phileas Fogg and Passepartout in their wild adventures around the world, but he also enjoyed the opportunity to observe the enigmatic Miss Spencer.
Levi dragged his mind from the pretty librarian in order to examine the weld on the wagon rim he’d just pounded into place. After dunking it in the slack tub for fast cooling, he gave the circle a few quick taps with his hammer at various intervals, listening for the clear, bell-like sound that indicated a well-rounded rim. A hollow thud would mean he’d have to start over. He struck the iron rim a final time, and the resultant ping filled him with satisfaction. Ornery let out a guttural moan—half howl, half whine—at the sound.
“You like that, too, do you?” Using his tongs, Levi set the rim on the flat stone work surface at the end of the forge. “We’ll have to file it and fit it to the wheel later. After the library.” He crouched down to rub the dog’s neck. “A man ought to have a break in the day, don’t you think?”
His father had always claimed that his afternoons were more productive when he went home to eat lunch with Mama. Of course, the vitality he found probably had more to do with being in the company of the woman he loved than with the break itself. But surely the short time spent away from work played a role, as well. After all, Levi had no wife, yet his daily trips to the library invigorated him. A quiet retreat away from his tools and the constant heat of the fire. A chance to get lost in a fictional adventure for thirty or forty-five minutes. He looked forward to the midday escape.
Eden Spencer’s image sprang to mind. All right. So maybe he looked forward to seeing her, too. What man wouldn’t? He’d been separated from female company too long not to appreciate the view of shapely curves and a comely face. Eden Spencer possessed both. As did several of Spencer’s other young ladies. Yet there was something particular about the prickly librarian that drew his attention time and again. What that was, he couldn’t say, but it drew him all the same.
Levi ruffled the dog’s fur a final time, then gave Ornery two firm pats on the side before stretching to his feet. He strode to the back corner of his shop, where a second tub of water sat atop a three-legged workbench he’d propped up with the broken handle of a garden hoe. The table leaned backward and to the left, but as long as he didn’t overfill his washtub, it suited his purposes.
Unwilling to show up at the library smelling like a mule, Levi hung up his leather apron, pushed his suspenders off his shoulders, and stripped out of his work shirt. He scrubbed his face, neck, arms, and chest and then dried off with a flour-sack towel Mrs. Barnes had lent him. Leaving the sweat-stained shirt to air out on a peg, he took down his only other shirt, the one he wore with his suit coat, and pulled it over his head. After doing up the buttons, tucking in the tails, and snapping his suspenders into place, he turned around for inspection.
“What do you think, boy? Will I do?”
Ornery looked up at him, stared for half a minute, and then turned and padded out the back door.
“Fine lot of help you are,” Levi called after him.
The dog seemed to crave privacy as strongly as he craved companionship, a strange combination. He waited by the shop doors every morning for Levi to arrive and enjoyed a bowl of dinner scraps and an occasional scratch behind the ears. But every afternoon he left. Levi had yet to decide if the in
creased traffic the shop generated later in the day scared him off, or if he simply experienced a canine urge to explore the countryside and chase rabbits. It was a puzzle he might never solve.
Much like Miss Spencer.
A wealthy, beautiful woman like her should have married years ago. Yet she hadn’t. Why? And why did she pretend to be cool and aloof when he knew very well a warm heart beat within her? He’d seen it in the way she interacted with the children during the reading on Friday. And he’d seen it again on Saturday. As he’d turned up her walk, he’d witnessed her hand off a cloth-wrapped bundle to a lad of about eight. As the boy dashed past him, Levi smelled freshly baked bread and something savory that might have been ham. A truly uppity woman would have scolded the child for bothering her, not given him hot food.
However, when it came to adults, she presented a more reserved disposition. After services on Sunday, she’d flitted from one female cluster to another, a polite smile gracing her lips, yet she never once penetrated past the fringe. Did the townsfolk consider her an outsider, or was she the one putting up barriers?
Levi pushed the questions to the back of his mind and stepped out onto the street. He waved to Claude, who was checking the harness on one of his rigs while a woman with a big hat and even bigger bustle waited in the shadow of the livery. He couldn’t see her face, but he dipped his chin and fingered the brim of his hat anyway, not surprised when she made no visible response.
A line had formed in front of the café, and his stomach rumbled as the aroma of beef stew wafted toward him. He ignored the pangs, though. Mrs. Barnes had packed him a couple pieces of cold chicken and one of her soft yeast rolls. He’d eat when he got back to the shop. Levi turned away from the café and walked down the side street that led to Miss Spencer’s library.
Over the last couple of days, he’d fallen into a routine. Walk in, hang up his hat, nod to the lovely lady behind the desk, collect his book, and settle into the corner, where he could sit unobtrusively on the floor instead of crushing one of her dollhouse-like chairs with his decidedly un-doll-like physique. The two of them usually had the place to themselves while others lunched at home or at the café, but they rarely conversed. She, because she apparently had no such desire. He, because silence was the safer path.